


Sanctuary

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF Hunith (Merlin), Blacksmithing, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragonlord Merlin (Merlin), Ealdor, Episode Related, Episode: s04e12-13 The Sword in the Stone, Family Feels, Feels, Female Friendship, Food, Historical Accuracy, Light Angst, Medieval Medicine, Missing Scene, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Hunith (Merlin), POV Third Person, Scars, Women Being Awesome, is a tag that exists and that she deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25742416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: I wanted more of Hunith in "The Sword in the Stone" (I always want more of Hunith, really) so I wrote it. I thought we deserved more of how the coming of Merlin as refugee affects her, and what her thoughts are on those he brings with him.This fic also features Arthur and Merlin bantering, Tristan being surprisingly gentle, and Gwen being unsurprisingly awesome. Also, Merlin gets to talk about his feelings because he deserves it.
Relationships: Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Hunith & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Hunith & Gwen, Hunith & Merlin (Merlin), Isolde/Tristan (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 93





	Sanctuary

Hunith straightens from where she has been gathering cresses. Under the light April rains, they have flourished, and her basket is nearly full. She smiles to herself, breathing deeply, and turns her steps towards the village. There is something unsettling and unsettled in this early spring weather. Folk make offerings to shrines, and plants spring up and demand tending. And there are rumors of armies on the move; Gwen speaks of more than rumor. Hunith pulls her shawl a bit more tightly about her.

She tells herself, as she walks briskly to the house, that there is no sense in worrying over what can’t be helped. And then she rounds the corner and there, astonishingly, is Merlin. He is half-stumbling, moving too quickly for his own weariness. He sees her and he grins, wide and radiant. Hunith runs. 

Hunith holds her son and tells herself that it does not matter what has brought him here. She strokes his hair, kisses his cheek, reassuring herself that he is whole. She wonders what has happened to him, her beautiful, fearless boy.

“Mother.” His voice shakes when he speaks, and he says nothing else. His arms around her are strong; she can feel him trembling. He lets out a breath, and straightens. He scans her face, as if conducting an examination of his own, or as if seeking confirmation of something. Hunith has not let go of him. She looks at him, and she wonders when he lost the awkwardness and hope of adolescence.

“Welcome home, Merlin.” It is the most important thing for him to know: that he is home, and that his coming will always be gladness to her. To her relief, he laughs. But there are tears in his eyes, and he glances away. Only then does Hunith notice that he is not alone. Hanging back, by the well, are three others who can only have come with him. Hunith allows herself the brief hope that Merlin’s worry can be explained by the woman who, injured, leans too heavily on the tall man with anxious eyes. It is with a shock that she realizes the awkward, diffident youth in the ill-fitting clothes is the prince — the king — who promised Ealdor his protection.

“My lord.” She drops into a curtsey. “Your pardon, I…”

Arthur waves this away with one hand. “No, no. We come seeking shelter.”

Hunith looks back to Merlin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go. We needed…” He breaks off.

She nods, lets him go with one final squeeze of his forearms. “It’s all right. We can talk inside. And I have yarrow and woundwort,” she adds. Merlin picks up her basket, as if he had never lost the habit, and Hunith lets the king of Camelot follow them home.

* * *

Hunith stirs up the fire, and puts her smallest pot on to boil water. “You can put her on the pallet there. I’m Hunith.”

“Tristan,” says the tall man. “And this is Isolde; don’t talk, my love.”

“Merlin’ll have you right,” says Hunith confidently. She reaches out to touch her son lightly, because she can. “He’s always had a gift for healing.”

“A man of many talents,” says the tall man, trying to smile, and Hunith’s heart goes out to him.

“You’ll want something after your journey,” she says, and gets down beakers. Merlin busies himself with selecting herbs, finding strips of clean cloth, and she cannot help feeling a rush of pleasure at simply seeing him familiarly about the house. 

She stands in front of Arthur without his seeing her. “My lord,” says Hunith at last, and presses the cider into his hand. His eyes on her are still glazed, unfocused.

“Thank you,” says Arthur vaguely, and Hunith glances at Merlin. He shakes his head slightly — _leave it_ — so Hunith does. 

“You’ll be better for it,” she tells Tristan, and he takes the cup from her with a smile. “Can she…?” she asks Merlin.

“She can, but wine would be best, if there is any.”

“Cider will have to do,” says Hunith. She hesitates for a moment.

“I’ll manage,” says Tristan, half-saluting her with his beaker before holding it to Isolde’s lips. Hunith turns away. She has been too long alone, she thinks, that such a gesture can shock her with its intimacy. 

“I’ll just be down the lane,” she tells Merlin. “We’ll want the pottage to go around, and Bryn has some of his salted pig still.”

“Mother, you don’t have to…”

“It’s all right.” She allows herself to ruffle his hair lightly. “I helped his Catherine when she was brought to bed this winter. They’ve got three now, and all boys!”

Merlin grins. “Good health to them all.”

“I’ll tell them.”

* * *

When she has obtained her salted pork, Hunith does not go directly home. Instead, she goes to the forge, that had sat silent after old Dinadan’s death, and where metal now rings on metal. Hunith stands for several moments and watches the woman at work. Gwen has come far, she thinks, since the autumn. She had arrived quiet and grieved and threadbare, pulling her belongings in a cart, and explained that Merlin, running after her as dawn broke over Camelot, had told her that Ealdor needed a smith. She has gained confidence in the interim. She wears new clothes, and greets the villagers in the street, and mends harness and scythes with a good will. But Hunith thinks she is still grieving. 

“Hunith!” says Gwen. She quenches the blade she is shaping in the bucket and puts an escaping curl back from her forehead. “What brings you here?”

Hunith steps inside without waiting for invitation. “News.” She is not sure how to break it, if there is a way to soften the shock. “Merlin’s home.”

“That’s wonderful.” Gwen’s joy is unfeigned. “I’ll gladly come and take a sup with you, if I may. Tomorrow, if you’d rather…”

“Gwen,” says Hunith, “Arthur’s with him.” She watches the blood drain from the other woman’s face. “I’m sorry. It’s… there’s something wrong, and I don’t know what it is yet. I haven’t told them you’re here.”

Gwen’s _oh_ is soundless. Wordlessly she goes to the barrel in the corner and drinks a ladle of water. “I hope Merlin knows,” she says at last. “He sent me here, after all.”

“I thought you should be told,” says Hunith. “And I wanted to know what you’d like me to do.”

Gwen turns again to face her. Her smile is shaken, but genuine. “Let me know if you need anything. The cottage will be small for three.”

“There are four of them. I don’t know the others.”

“Decidedly small, then,” says Gwen, and her face falls. “I don’t know… I don’t know if he’ll want to see me.”

“You aren’t to blame, Gwen. And even if… well, I don’t think much of a man who won’t forgive a woman.”

Gwen laughs shakily. “Merlin explained. No way to explain to Arthur, without explaining how he knew of magic and couldn’t explain his coming by the knowledge. And Arthur…” Gwen shakes her head. “Gods help me, I love him still, but he’s a proud man.”

Hunith crosses to take the younger woman in her arms. After a few moments, Gwen speaks again. “Send him to me,” she says, “if he’ll come. And tell Merlin… well, there’ll be time for me to tell him myself.”

Hunith kisses her on the cheek. “I should get the pottage heating. And I’ll give you time to change.”

Gwen, though her eyes are shining with tears, smiles at her. “You’re a romantic, Hunith.”

Hunith returns the smile, and pauses in the doorway of the forge. “Always have been,” she says. “Remind me to tell you how Merlin’s father and I met.”

* * *

Hunith returns to the cottage to find Tristan bending over the fire, carefully scraping the edges of the pot to keep the stew from burning. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He looks up a little sheepishly. “Merlin told me to get out of the way and stop fussing.”

“Ah.” Hunith squeezes his shoulder. “Well, you can chop the salt pork then, if you’re looking for occupation.” He takes it from her with a jerky little nod. He has a nice face, Hunith thinks; and habits shaped by kindness, as well as poverty. She supposes she must just resign herself to not knowing how they fell in with Arthur and her son.

“Merlin saved our lives, you know,” says Tristan, and Hunith starts at the taking up of her thought.

“You saved ours first.” Arthur’s voice is slurring slightly with weariness.

“Now then,” says Hunith, pretending to threaten them with the spoon, “I’ll have no arguments.”

“What I want to know is,” says Tristan, methodically chopping the salt pork, “how Merlin learned to shoot a crossbow like that.”

“That’s my doing,” says Arthur proudly.

“Of course you’d say that.” Merlin has not looked up from crushing yarrow into a paste.

“It is,” protests Arthur. “You’d be entirely useless if it weren’t for my dragging you along to training.” To Hunith’s surprise, Merlin does not object to this remark, but merely smiles at his work. “I don’t really think your son is useless,” adds the king. “Entirely.”

“Oh, so you’ll apologize to my mum…”

“Thank you, Arthur,” says Hunith serenely, and goes back to stirring the pot.

When the pottage is heated through, she hands Merlin their bowls. “It’s all right,” she says, as Tristan looks as though he might be trying to take up less space, “we’ll eat on the bench outside.” On the threshold, she pauses. 

“Arthur.” She takes the liberty partly for Gwen’s sake, and partly, Hunith admits to herself, for the pleasure of seeing the king of Camelot raise his head when his name is called. “I was told to send you over to the forge, if you wanted to go.” His brow furrows in confusion. “Gwen’s our blacksmith.” She turns her back on the satisfying spectacle of his astonishment.

Merlin, already seated on the bench, grins up at her. “That was wicked,” he says, softly enough not to be overheard.

“Give me the pottage while it’s hot, there’s a good lad. He deserved it.”

“No arguments there.”

“It’s getting warm enough to do this now,” says Hunith, after a few moments. Merlin, after almost whimpering at the first mouthful, has been consuming soup with single-minded focus and remarkable speed. “To sit outside in the evenings.”

“Mm.” Merlin puts his spoon down. “Sorry, I…” He trails off, as if there is no explanation that would not be worse than silence.

“Merlin.” She runs a hand through his hair. “Are you apologizing for being hungry?”

“Sorry.”

“Shh. Eat your supper.” He swallows hard, holding her gaze. “We’ll have to see about getting you a wash afterwards.” This succeeds: he gives her a lopsided smile, and turns back to his bowl.

“Sorry,” says Merlin again. “We’ve been… well, I suppose it’s obvious that we’ve been on the run.”

“Mm.” 

Her son lets out a shaking breath. “Camelot’s fallen.”

“No!”

“Afraid so.” Hunith hugs herself, suddenly cold in the spring air. “Morgana,” adds Merlin laconically.

“Morgana?” Hunith remembers a tall, sharp-boned girl, defying orders to defend the weak. “We’d heard rumors of her treachery, but I didn’t believe… Gwen never said…”

“Gwen was her friend,” says Merlin sadly. “And her betrayal of Gwen… I’m not sure even I know all of that story.”

Hunith reaches out, massages the nape of his neck until he leans into the touch. “It’s not your fault, Merlin.”

He half-laughs under his breath. “How is it,” he asks, “that you know what I’m thinking?”

“It’s what mothers do.” They finish their meal in companionable silence.

“Leave the bowls,” says Hunith, when he makes to take hers. “Walk with me.” Merlin smiles, and tucks her arm through his.

“I didn’t get to thank Gaius,” says Merlin suddenly, when they are halfway down the street. “We had to run, and he… he insisted on staying. He told me to look after Arthur,” concludes Merlin miserably.

“He’ll be all right,” says Hunith firmly. “They’d be fools to harm Gaius.”

“Yes.” He does not look comforted.

“It’s good to have you home, Merlin.” It is the one reassurance she can give.

“I’m only sorry it’s been so long.”

“It’s all right. Know that, Merlin.” Hunith sighs. “I know I don’t really understand what it’s been like, your life in Camelot.”

“Mother…”

“I worry about you sometimes,” she confesses. “The dangers you must face.”

He steps away from her then, to look at her directly, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Mother, I don’t want you to worry.”

She smiles up at him: her beautiful boy, a half-starved fugitive, telling her not to worry. “I can’t help it,” says Hunith, and adds: “It’s what mothers do.”

He lets out a breath, and puts his arm around her. “Well,” says Merlin, “we’re safe here.”

* * *

They return to the cottage to find the fire banked, the dishes washed, and Tristan and Isolde on the pallet. Isolde rouses when they come in.

“Hunith.”

“That’s right.” Isolde smiles, and nestles down against her lover. “Here,” says Hunith, handing the large basket to Merlin, “you can help me sort cresses.”

“Arthur?” says Merlin. He has taken the basket automatically.

“Fainted on me,” says Tristan without opening his eyes. “Said he was going to the forge, though, before he stood up too quickly. So I carried his royal highness there over my shoulder. Nice girl, that.”

“Oh,” says Merlin, a bit faintly.

“He’ll be fine,” says Hunith. “Come on, love.”

Merlin follows her dutifully, but murmurs that he’ll just wash at the trough before helping her. Watching him, Hunith finds herself selfishly wishing that they could have had a life with this sort of closeness. He would have had another house, a respected craft as a healer… and perhaps, by this time, a wife. But Hunith can see, even in the fitful shadows cast by moonlight, scars. And she knows that Merlin has found what he needs to do.

She wipes her eyes before he comes back, drying his face on his neckerchief. She suspects, though, that he can tell she’s been crying, because he smiles and says: “I’ve always loved sorting cresses.”

Hunith takes his hand to draw him down to the bench. “I’ll gather more tomorrow; there’ll be enough for us all to have soup then.” He kisses her lightly on the temple. “You do smell sweeter.”

He chuckles. “Am I not a thoughtful son?”

“You are,” Hunith answers seriously. “You are, and I’m proud of you, Merlin.” He glances over sharply, eyes wide and dark, and goes back to his work in silence. 

“This was one of my favorite times of the year, growing up,” he says. “It felt so rich, being able to eat all the greens we wanted.”

“Mm.” Hunith is not to be so easily distracted. “Merlin, I know he’s the king, but is Arthur… does Arthur treat you well?”

“Oh, that.” Merlin smiles, his long fingers never pausing in their work, and Hunith wonders if the king knows how fond her son is of him. “That’s just… Honestly, I don’t think Arthur knows how to express approval that isn’t a bit patronizing. And he doesn’t know what to make of me. I’m not one of his knights, I’m a peasant — ” he grins at her — “and I chivvy him out of bed in the mornings and I’ve saved his life more times than I can count. No, he doesn’t know about all of them,” Merlin adds quickly, “but still. He’s indebted, and he doesn’t like it. And he knows…” Merlin pauses.

“Not about your magic?”

“No, not about my magic. But he knows that I would die for him, without hesitation: for _him_ , not because he’s the king of Camelot, not because of some loyalty I have to the kingdom, but because… because of who he is.” Merlin swallows. “I don’t think he has any idea what to make of that, either. But when he’s not thinking about what’s due to him as king, and making sure he gets it, he’s surprisingly kind. Really,” he says, seeing Hunith’s expression. “I, um, put a spell on him. To get him safely out of Camelot, not to make him be nice to me,” adds Merlin hurriedly. “But it was… unexpectedly revealing.” 

Before Hunith can reply, or formulate another question, the quiet of the night is broken by a woman’s thin, high scream of panic. Merlin is on his feet in an instant; Hunith, behind him, tries to assess who’s doing the screaming.

“Agravaine,” says Merlin. “He’s found us.” Hunith follows his gaze to the southern ridge, and her breath stops in her throat. West, north, east… the line of men holding torches is unbroken.

“I’m sorry.” He is practically babbling. “I’m so sorry, I thought we’d lost them, I thought I’d shaken them, I didn’t think he’d…”

“Oh, Merlin,” says Hunith, and puts a hand on her son’s arm. “That’s not a search party. That’s an army.”

He throws his arms around her. “We’ll have to go. We’ll have to go. They want us, not anything they can find here. Agravaine will want them in pursuit, not burning crops, or…” Hunith holds him closer. They both know too well what an army can bring. “Can you…?” begins Merlin, and stops.

“Yes.”

“Organize whoever’s awake,” says Merlin. “Get that woman who ran screaming into the barley field. Get them out — as many men as you can — torches up, spare food on offer, telling the Southrons which way we’ve gone.”

“Merlin…”

“Please, Mother.”

Hunith holds him more tightly, and tries to tell herself that it will not be for the last time. “I will,” she says; “I will.” 

“I love you.” He kisses her quickly, and runs. Hunith swallows her tears, and goes to get Gwyneth out of the barley.

The men and women of Ealdor are used to armies. And when Hunith explains that this one is after the king who has kept raiders from their fields for the last few harvests, they are glad enough to stand against it. Merlin’s prediction holds true: the soldiers move swiftly, combing hiding places, and their leader makes himself visible at their head, his sharp eyes peering into shadows. Hunith hears the rush of fire, and turns in fear — only to see a cart aflame, and rattling with unnatural speed down the rutted lane. _Merlin._ Her beautiful, reckless boy.

The leader — Agravaine — shouts, and the army obeys. There will be bruises in the morning, Hunith thinks, but no thatch has been set alight, and no blood spilled, and she is prepared to count that as victory. When she returns to her cottage, it is empty. Merlin has placed the basket with its sorted cresses inside. Hunith covers her mouth with her hand, and gives way to tears.

She emerges again when she hears the unearthly cry, the nearby shouting. Her neighbors are in the street, pointing and exclaiming. Hunith follows their gaze… and the shape in the sky takes her breath away. _Balinor_ , she thinks, and then: _he cannot be here; he would have told me_ , and then: _he is dead._ And as the dragon’s roar sends fire into the sky, into the forest, into the ranks of a pursuing army, Hunith realizes what it must mean.

Merlin, the boy who was just now helping her to sort cresses, who bathed because she told him to, is a Dragonlord. And he is calling on the forbidden power of ancient magics to protect his king. 

“Oh, Merlin,” breathes Hunith, “be safe.” She knows it is an impossible wish.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the "historical accuracy" tag seems silly for this show, but this fic is accurate to the late Middle Ages for the dynamics of village life, cooking, medicine, etc., so there it is. 
> 
> I've intentionally modified some of the dialogue of the show for what I feel is greater emotional plausibility. Because of what I wanted this fic to do, I feel that it ended up a bit expositional. I'd enjoy knowing what you thought of it.


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